Florida!

I always assume that the United States of America is pretty much just like Canada, only with more people and more guns. But it really isn’t anything like Canada at all. I am drawn to America at the same time I am terrified of it. America is like the coolest girl in the junior-high cafeteria. Not the most popular, but the one who is most revered, who everyone recognizes, who laughs and swears the loudest. She’s already had her period, and already has real tits, while you’re still in a training bra that your mother quaintly calls a “camisole” and are pretty sure that by the time you get your period, it will be High School and no one will care anymore. You’ve also heard that America has already “done it” with a guy from the grade above yours, that guy who got kicked out of school for being such a bad-ass, or something. Europe is at least like an older sister. Maybe a half-sister from a previous marriage. Strange and sophisticated, wiser and more worldly, but all the while still recognizable. Not so, America. By the time you’ve scoured the mall for a pair of shoes almost but not exactly like hers, she’s already moved on to something else so extraordinary that you can only despair. There is no keeping up with America.
This is what occurred to me on the first day of our mini-holiday as we made our way through the bustle of the Ft. Lauderdale-Hollywood airport, really busy in contrast to the early morning departure from Toronto Pearson, and out onto the freeway. It’s not just the obvious difference in natural landscape that struck me, but the change in architecture scale, the urban landscape. Everything is bigger. By the time my Tim Horton’s coffee buzz had fully worn off, and we were cruising by the mansions of West Palm Beach, I was well and truly overwhelmed.
Then came dinner.
At home, I never ask for doggy bags. It quite simply doesn’t occur to me. Even if the portions are large, I am happy to just leave what I don’t eat. But down there, it seems like a natural reaction. There is frankly so much food served with every order, some kind of survival instinct kicks in (My god, there’s so much food left here. I could eat this all week. I should eat this all week. Wrap it up!). It makes me think of diet tips from American magazines, ones that tell you to eat only half your entrée and bring the rest home. Frankly, eating half is still eating too much. Eat one quarter. Eat leftovers for a week. America is the land of the doggy bag. One-third of the ads on television are for food; a Technicolor bounty flashing temptingly for thirty seconds. Another third of the ads are for diet and weight loss tools and programs. The remaining third are for medications. Indulgence, recovery from indulgence, and consequences of indulgence. Their national anthem should be that Madonna song from the movie Dick Tracy--remember it? “More!” Whenever I’m in the United States, I envision a line of chorus girls high-kicking around me, shouting, “More, more, more, more! Nothing’s better than moooooooooooore!”

Eating "famous" fish and chips at John G's. I'm holding a corn fritter.
Fried goodness. Pack up the extras and we'll eat 'em later!

We had fun on our Palm Beach eat-a-thon. J’s bubbie showed us the sights (including the mandatory trip to Target) cruising around in her enormous Cadillac. She also excitedly told me she’d bought wine, and we had a lovely cocktail hour every day. We ate at Johnny G’s, twice, a local and visitor favorite. On our last day, we got up early so we could walk along the beach to get breakfast there. The "famous" french toast was worth it. We ate it all, no doggy bag required.

I made a special quest for key lime pie.

Despite some crappy weather (“You brought the cold weather with you!” all the locals joked. Ha. Ha.) J and I still managed to lie on the beach (wrapped up in towels) and go in the ocean--twice. We’ve never paid much attention to you-must-be-crazy stares. Where would we be if we did? Certainly not doing yoga on the sand, or frolicking in the exciting waves. The ocean is great fun. I also find it scary; the way the water can so easily push you where it wants you to go. Even just standing at the edge of the water, the sand being sucked out from under my feet by the receding waves, I am reminded that the ocean is a powerfully different being from my familiar lakes.

The more I travel to warmer places, the more I long to live somewhere that is warm year-round. I can’t think of anything nicer than waking to sunshine, getting dressed with an ocean breeze blowing through the wide-open window, and never wearing my Sorels ever again.

Sunrise over the Atlantic

Morning walk on the last day, headed for breakfast with a view